


deadwater

by rajishana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Good Peter, M/M, Murder Mystery, POV Peter Hale, Peter-centric, Well as good as he gets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-06 12:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10334921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rajishana/pseuds/rajishana
Summary: Peter was looking forward to finally having some peace and quiet, once the youngest pack member officially left the house. That is, until his plans were interrupted by a burnt body, a whiff of magic, and a mystery he can't let go.After all, Peter knows better than most -- what you don't know can kill you.





	1. practice makes perfect when you’re being an asshole

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: practice makes perfect when you’re being an asshole
> 
> (Or, Peter becomes Dick Tracy, plays with friends, and exits, stage left)

Peter stood comfortably in the shadow of the Hale house, enjoying the silence spreading through the building. He imagined it sinking down into the foundations at the blush of dawn, thick and almost humid, drowning out the unrepentant roar of family life. In the quiet it was tangible, only interrupted by the soft, slow heartbeat of a man in deep sleep. A small thrill slid down Peter’s spine as he breathed in deeply and tasted the air, sweet as the forest in summer should be. Peter waited in the stillness that came before a storm and thought, confidently, that this time _he_ would be the storm. Peter felt a grin spread across his face despite himself. Peter had waited months for the opportunity in front of him. Finally, _finally,_ his day had come.

“You don’t have to look so pleased, you know.”

Peter turned, dropping the grin in favor of an expression of exaggerated concern. He looked his sister up and down. Talia looked tired, nights of worry finally catching up to her. She was wearing her favorite patchy bathrobe, the one that had “World’s Best Mom” off the side of the breast in large, uneven stitches. Her brown hair was piled loosely on top of her head, each hair attempting to escape into its own defined curl. She was wearing a set of ridiculously pink bunny slippers and she smelled like morning dew from the northeast quadrant of the Hale Preserve.

“I would _never_ ,” Peter said. He shook his head with feigned disappointment, glancing pointedly at her attire. “Dear sister, don’t tell me you have empty nest syndrome already?”

Talia snorted. “I don’t think so.” Talia wiped dirt off the side of her robe absently as she turned away from her brother to gaze down the gravel pathway. Peter knew she was remembering Cora’s naturally stern face, the faint shine in her eyes as she said goodbye. “I can’t help but worry, though. Cora gets into too much trouble for her own good.”

“Much as it pains me to say it,” Peter said wryly, “the Silva pack is not entirely incompetent. I am confident they will treat her well.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Talia said with mild irritation. “But that doesn’t change the fact that my daughter will be eleven hours away in case of emergency, traipsing about in a godforsaken rainforest.”

“Ah, the adventures of youth.”

“Don’t act like you’re not a little concerned. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been up at the ass crack of dawn helping your niece pack her things into your favorite car.”

“Second-favorite,” Peter corrected. “The Porsche is my favorite. Besides, anyone who even thought of touching her wouldn’t live to regret it.”

“Regret wouldn’t get me my daughter back.” Talia said quietly, and Peter sighed.

“She’ll be safe, Talia, and she’ll only be gone a year.” Peter tapped his finger against his leg absentmindedly. “You’ve trained her well; the Silva pack is strong enough to have maintained their territory for centuries. They’ll take good care of her.”

When Talia continued to look dubious, Peter shrugged and added, “Besides, I’d spend your energy worrying more about Laura and Derek. New York is far more dangerous for a young wolf making their way.”

“Really, Peter?” Talia said, irritated. “ _That’s_ your attempt at consoling me?”

Peter grinned. “You’re moping. You have a limited amount of time before this house is filled to the brim with piles of pups. In the meantime, enjoy your long-lost freedom before grandchildren come to consume your last living breath.” Peter tilted his head, as if hearing something in the distance. “You hear that?”

Talia sighed and rubbed her temples. “I don’t hear anything but David and the birds, Peter.”

“Exactly.” Peter waved his hand across the horizon, presenting the house and forest to her with a flourish. “Enjoy the quiet.” Peter said, dropping his hand. “Christ knows it never lasts for long around here.”

“You’re absurd,” Talia said, rolling her eyes, “and I’m done with you. I’m going back to bed.” Talia shook her head and began making her way back into the house. Then, “Since you’re up, make sure you check the perimeter this morning. Wards pinged late last night.”

“It’s probably just a sprite,” Peter said. “Make David do it. That’s what house husbands are for.”

“No, that’s what my antisocial little _brother_ is for. Check it out. If it’s nothing, then it shouldn’t take you long.”

Peter scowled at his sister. Talia grinned back, and Peter pushed away the brief relief he felt lest she smell it on him. _She always pretends like she’s the responsible one_ , Peter thought with a hint of fondness, _but she’s just as petty as I am._ Then, with the glare expected of him, Peter turned on his heel and strode into the forest to get his task over with. It was Peter’s first quiet morning since June 1984, by his reckoning, and he planned to take full advantage of it.

 

 

Peter took his time checking the wards around the Reserve, enjoying the cool morning air. The occasional alarm wasn’t unusual, particularly during the late summer when most creatures migrated across California to avoid the brush fires. For all their natural advantages, the majority of supernatural beings were dangerously susceptible to fire. Peter often wondered why they bothered settling in California at all, although he would be the first to admit that some species were particularly stupid. Still, their yearly movement was nothing to panic over even if it was a little early, and Peter was relaxed as he followed the faint trace of smoke in the air that signified that autumn was around the corner.

As Peter continued to drift through the forest, the scent steadily intensified until Peter could feel a faint itch in the back of his throat as he breathed. Crinkling it, Peter realized that his nose hadn’t adjusted to the scent of fire and ash as it usually did. Slowly, Peter followed the trail, a growing unease in his stomach as he realized it was leading him to the breach from the previous night. Peter frowned and concentrated his senses on the slight, underlying scent of burnt meat behind the ash. Peter thought, briefly, of campers sneaking onto the Hale Preserve, desperate to see the stars away from the lights of Beacon Hills and kept warm by campfire and whiskey. It didn’t happen often, but he and Talia had cleaned up the leftovers of out-of-town trespassers more than once over the years. It was possible one such group had left embers burning.

Peter’s natural pessimism wouldn’t let him indulge the idea for long, though. A growl found its way deep in his throat and Peter struggled not to let it loose. His instincts told him any major danger was probably gone, but Peter had not survived as the Left Hand of the Hale Pack without a measure of paranoia. Stalking through the woods, Peter followed the scent trail, claws at the ready. A hunter had not made an attempt on the Hale family in well over six years, but that did not mean they would not take advantage now that the pack was spread thin from travel. Or that some painfully stupid supernatural creature wouldn’t try to assert its dominance. After a few minutes, Peter sighted the source of the smell burning his nostrils. He straightened up, his predatory gait loosening up into something less urgent.

Well, well, well. Peter closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. All Peter wanted was a quiet morning to himself. Just one quiet day without whiney teenagers moping underfoot, smelling of old clothes and sexual frustration. One day when he didn’t have to clean blood off his hands because some supernatural creature got the idiotic idea that he could challenge the Hale Pack for their territory. Just one day when he didn’t have to deal with all the chaos.

Peter opened his eyes and stared down at the blackened body in front of his feet. He sighed.

“Well, shit.”

 

 

“Well, shit,” Talia said, poking the body idly with her slipper. As if, somehow, the magical properties of its pink fluff would restore its flesh and make it any less dead. Peter slapped at her offhandedly from his careful crouch over the body.

“Language,” Peter said mildly, still peering closely at the cracked, blackened remains. Peter hid his grin as Talia turned her head to glare at him.

After a moment, Talia sighed and rubbed her temples. “Any idea who this is?”

Peter shook his head. “All identifying markers have been burnt beyond recognition.” Peter rose. “We’ll have to wait for dental records.”

Peter waited quietly as his sister processed the information, sure that his own thoughts were following a similar path. His natural instinct was to hide the remains, the need for discretion always his first thought. Peter had plenty of experience hiding supernatural corpses; ninety percent of the time he was responsible for creating them in the first place. However, Peter was reluctant to follow his initial impulse given that the purpose of the body wasn’t clear. If it was a message then it was a poor one -- Peter couldn’t even identify the _gender_ of the body, let alone where it may have come from or even whether it was human or supernatural. If it _was_ the body of a supernatural creature then they would have to do some serious research, keep it all quick and quiet. But that was only if they weren’t being set up more mundanely, in which case contacting the police first would keep them from digging too deeply.

If they were lucky it would end up being just an average murder, left behind by someone who didn’t realize just how closely the Hales kept track of their land. Peter resisted the urge to sigh out loud, where his sister could hear him. For all their long, illustrious history as the protectors of Beacon Hills, the Hale pack had never been particularly lucky.

“We need more information,” Talia said eventually. She glanced at Peter. “Call Parrish.”

Peter scowled.

“What?” Talia asked, eyes narrowing.

“You know what,” Peter said. “He hates me.”

“Parrish is a fine young man,” Talia said. “I don’t know why you bother to complain. You only have yourself to blame.”

“That sentence makes you sound old,” Peter said, then added, “How was _I_ supposed to know he was dating the banshee?”

There was no way he could have known. The Fields Medal winner had been in town, what, three days? It’s not like there was a sign on her forehead informing all potential suitors that she was practically engaged to their small-town Sheriff.

A faint smile twitched at the corner of Talia’s mouth before she schooled her face back into something utterly unyielding. “Call him,” she repeated.

“Yes, _Alpha_.” Peter muttered, and Talia turned, striding back to the house.

 

 

After twenty minutes of being put on hold – Peter _knew_ Parrish was still pissed – Parrish finally picked up. He was perfectly pleasant when he answered the phone. “Beacon Hills Police Department. This is Parrish.”

“Twenty minutes?” Peter asked irritably. “What if it had been an actual emergency?”

“Talia has my number,” Parrish said amiably, “but if you would like to come to the station to make a formal complaint, we have a variety of grievance forms available.”

“I have no idea how anyone in that place can stand you.”

“They’re charmed by my handsome face and lean but powerful physique. What do you need, Peter?”

Peter let out a breath. “There’s a body at the edge of the Reserve.”

A long pause. Then, carefully, “Is this information for the Sheriff, or for the Hellhound?”

“Depends. The body was burned too badly to identify.” Peter didn’t bother to ask him to come. The Sheriff would be able to read between the lines, and the Hellhound in him wouldn’t allow him to leave it alone even if he wanted to. Besides, Peter begrudgingly admitted to himself, the creature bonded to Parrish had a better nose for identifying supernatural specifics than he did.

“Let me wrap things up here. I assume you’re with the body?”

Peter hummed in agreement.

“Good. Stay there, don’t touch it. I’ll find you.”

Parrish hung up.

 

 

Peter was poking at the body as Parrish walked up, lifting burnt patches of skin with a stick in hopes of finding some sort of identification. He avoided touching it directly; although it was unlikely they’d try to look for prints given the state of the body, Peter had been arrested often enough over the years that the station probably had his fingerprints printed and posted up on the wall by now. No point in risking it.

Parrish looked exasperated as he approached. “What did I say?”

Peter resisted the urge to inform Parrish, like a child, that _he was not the boss of him_.

“You’re more than welcome to file a formal complaint,” Peter informed him.

Parrish frowned and crouched down to look down at the burnt corpse opposite Peter. “I’ll file your ass into a cell,” he muttered, but he was already looking the body up and down, brows furrowing. After a moment, Parrish closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

It felt like hours before Parrish opened his eyes, the irises burning like embers.

“It’s not supernatural,” Parrish said, the words trailing off slightly. He paused, eyes unfocused as if seeing something far in the distance. He shook his head slowly, “but something’s off.”

Parrish fell silent, still staring down some invisible image over Peter’s shoulder. Peter made himself wait for a few moments before his irritation got the better of him and he snapped his fingers in front of Parrish’s face. “Hey,” he said. “Focus.”

Parrish blinked and came back to himself, glancing over to meet Peter’s eyes. “It’s barely there, but -- magic.”

“Any specifics?”

Parrish gave a small shake of his head. “No, it’s too faint to tell. Maybe Lydia could get something, but…” Parrish shrugged. “She’s still in Boston for a conference. By the time she gets back it’ll be gone.”

Peter thought quickly. Technically, the use of foreign magic on Hale property made the body his problem. But the Hellhound hadn’t tried to take the body the previous night, while it was still out in the open. That, combined with the fact that the magic was so faint that even Peter couldn’t smell it, indicated that the magic hadn’t been the direct cause of death. Had it been a byproduct? Someone feeding off the death itself? Fuck, Peter hated magic users.

“Take it,” Peter said, making a decision. There were too many questions and not enough answers. Until he had less of the former and more of the latter, Peter preferred that the body be in police custody. _He could always steal it back later_ , Peter thought, amused.

Parrish looked confused. “I already said it’s not supernatural,” he said. “The Hellhound won’t—”

Peter rolled his eyes. “To the _police station_ ,” Peter said, as if to a small, particularly obtuse child. Parrish scowled, but didn’t move. Peter gave Parrish a moment to get over his own ego and embarrassment, but when Parrish remained unmoving, Peter glanced pointedly at the radio at Parrish’s shoulder.

“I don’t know about you, but I have plans today.” He hadn’t, actually, before this body showed up, but Parrish didn’t have to know that. “Can we hurry this along?”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“What?” Peter asked, impatient.

Parrish glanced at the body, then back at Peter. “You were a person of interest in that major arson case years back, right?” Parrish asked, eyes serious. “You call this in, you’ll be interviewed as a suspect. You’ll have to be.”

Peter held back the instinctive groan that pulled at his throat. Suspect interviews were so impossibly _boring_. Still, Peter found it offensive that Parrish would think him concerned about such a minor issue.

“I think I can handle the professional interrogation techniques of the Beacon Hills police department,” Peter said wryly. “Now, if you would?”

With a slow, resigned shake of his head, Parrish pulled the radio from its careful perch on his shoulder. Holding down the PTT, Parrish watched Peter as he said, “Dispatch, this is Parrish. Ten-five.”

“Dispatch, ten-two, go ahead.”

 “I have a ten-fifty-five at Hale Preserve.”

“Copy, Parrish. Standby.” A pause, then, “Jenkins and Tracey en route.”

“Ten-four.”

“See ya soon, boss.”

Parrish huffed out a laugh as he placed the radio back on his shoulder. “Happy?” he asked.

“Very,” Peter said, deadpan. “Now,” Peter continued, standing up to start the long walk back towards the house, “I’ve got other business to attend to.”

Peter knew Parrish well enough to know he was considering telling Peter to stay. Peter stared squarely at Parrish, eyebrow raised. Peter felt a smug jolt of victory when Parrish gave up the idea, sighing. “You’re going to have to come to the station to give a statement,” Parrish said, “but that can wait. Make sure Talia comes with you.”

Peter shrugged and forced himself to turn his back on the police officer despite the spark of unease he felt crawling down his spine every time he interacted with Parrish. A side effect of being around the Hellhound, he supposed.

“Hey Peter,” Parrish called, loud and amused, just before Peter was out of earshot. “Don’t leave town!”

What an _asshole_ , Peter thought with feeling. He strode out of the clearing without looking back.

 

 

There was no other way to say it – Deaton’s office smelled like shit. It was one of the many, many reasons that Peter hated coming here and why Talia thought it was so funny to make him go.

 _It’s good for you,_ she would say, a particularly malicious twinkle in her eye. _I hear that time with animals has a positive effect on your health._

 _There’s nothing positive about it_ , Peter would say. Not that that ever changed her mind, of course.

A tinkling bell announced his presence as Peter entered Deaton’s veterinary clinic. Already tense, Peter’s stomach churned as a waft of cat-piss air forced itself into his nose. Another reason he hated this place. Peter preferred to be announced at _his_ choosing. In this case, however, he was sure that Deaton was aware that Peter was there from the moment Peter’s fingers touched the door, making the fact that Deaton waited a full five minutes before bothering to come out all the more frustrating. Particularly since both were well aware that the Mountain Ash counter prevented Peter going in and dragging Deaton out by the balls for making him wait.

“Ah, Peter!” Deaton said, eyes wide with what Peter knew was feigned surprise. Deaton smiled apologetically and wiped his hands with a cloth before setting it down on the counter next to his check-in list.  “What a pleasant surprise. Sorry for the wait, I had a patient.”

 _Oh, I bet you did,_ Peter thought darkly.

“So, what can I do for you?”

Peter weighed the consequences of just walking out to avoid Deaton’s inevitably vague statements against the likelihood of it coming back to bite him in the ass. Resentfully, Peter decided that fate was probably against him, and he might as well get it over with.

“A body was found at the edge of the Reserve. Not supernatural, but it had a touch of magic, barely enough for the Hellhound to sense.” Peter tapped his finger against the wood of Deaton’s counter, long used to the slight sting. “As far as I can tell, magic didn’t cause the death directly, but it could have been a byproduct, maybe the leftovers from a feeding. Does that ring any bells?”

Deaton frowned thoughtfully. “How long was it there for?”

“A few hours, at most. The body was burned beyond recognition, and the Hellhound didn’t take him.”

Deaton hummed. “Well, if the Sheriff didn’t take the body, that certainly narrows down our options.”

“To what?” _Christ_ , Peter thought. It was like pulling goddamn teeth. And people thought _Peter_ was a pain in the ass.  
“I’m not sure. There are a handful of creatures that leave minimal magical residue, but not many that also burn their prey. I’ll look over my records, but as far as I know there are few that Talia doesn’t already have.”

“Could it be a warlock?” The word tasted bitter on Peter’s tongue. Beacon Hills didn’t need that kind of trouble. It was hard enough having a mid-ranked druid. “Or another magic-user?”

Brows furrowed, Deaton said, “I would have to see the body to be sure, but – I don’t think so. All the major players are accounted for.” He paused. “That being said, it’s entirely possible that it’s a minor talent causing trouble. If so, it would be unlikely that I would know of them personally. I would keep an eye out for newcomers to the area.”

 _No shit_ , Peter thought. “Do you have anything that might help detect these minor talents?”

Deaton shook his head. “Unfortunately not. Limited magical talent tends to flare up inconsistently and is difficult to track, especially if it’s untrained. Your natural senses would be more effective.”

Peter clicked his tongue, irritated. As usual, visiting Deaton was a waste of his time. Emissary aside, Peter didn’t know why Talia bothered to keep him around, sometimes. She was probably flattered by his puppydog crush. And how difficult was it to get an assistant to clean out cat litter? _Fuck._ Peter could be patient when he needed to be, but he _hated_ not knowing what was going on in his own back yard. What you didn’t know could kill you, and almost had more than once.

Deaton coughed to regain Peter’s attention. Against his better judgment, Peter swung his gaze to look back at the druid, expression dark. Deaton ignored him. “We shouldn’t forget that this could just be a human,” Deaton said quietly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“ _Thank you_ , Deaton,” Peter said. “You’ve been _enormously_ helpful.”  Briefly, Peter thought about leaving their exchange there, but he was still annoyed and, well. Let it never be said that Peter Hale wasn’t a petty motherfucker.

Peter arranged his face into an amiable, pleasant expression. “It’s been good talking to you, as always. I’ll send Talia your love -- ah, excuse me. Your best regards. Love wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?”

Deaton sucked in a sharp breath, his face going suddenly blank. Peter shook his head, smiling regretfully. “Well, it has been a pleasure. Have a good day, Alan.”

Deaton was far too prim and proper to ever curse at Peter, but the dark look on his face was more than enough. Peter left the clinic, whistling.


	2. home is wherever your bunch of crazies are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: home is wherever your bunch of crazies are
> 
> (Or, Peter interacts with the fam and meets with a friend over corpse)

Peter could be patient when he needed to be. He was more than familiar with the exceptionally annoying levels of bureaucracy a murder investigation involved, and since the body was only about a two on his personal five-point trouble scale, there was no point alienating the police force more than he did usually.

Acknowledging that worrying wouldn’t get him test results any sooner, Peter fell back into his normal routine. Over the next few days, Peter continued to patrol the border of the reserve, giving the boot to a pair of drunken out-of-towners who had tried to make a bonfire on their protected land and assisting a lausk who had traveled too far south in his search for vacation and accidentally brought the bite of winter with him. Talia and David rarely joined him on these trips, too busy reading over legal briefs or writing The Next Great American Novel, respectively, and Peter appreciated the relative quiet.

By Thursday, however, Peter was getting bored.

 

 

Pixies. Peter _hated_ pixies. Tribes of the annoyingly small, sharp-toothed creatures came through a few times a year, drawn by the magic of the Nemeton. Prideful and perpetually offended by the larger world and its refusal to bow to their whims, pixies took forever to deal with, their loud chattering in rapid Sylvan making his ears ache. If it wasn’t for their tendency to bestow small curses and Talia’s direct orders to the contrary, Peter was pretty sure he would try to eat one just to get it to shut up. Such a pity. Talia’s strong opinions against wanton pixie murder were completely overrated, in his opinion.

 _I should make Talia do this next year_ , Peter thought to himself. Of the two of them, Peter got along with a few rare individuals, but Talia was the one that actually liked other people as a whole. Then he snorted, because no one could _make_ Talia do anything. By the time he had wrapped things up and the pixies had agreed to leave the territory first thing in the morning, it was late afternoon.

Peter entered the house, tired and head throbbing. As he entered, he could smell bright spices and cooking meat. He smiled to himself. David was in a Punjabi mood today, it seemed. Setting his shoes carefully by the door, Peter made his way to the kitchen, announcing himself as he entered.

David turned, smiling broadly, hands never stopping their motion as he moved between pots and pans.

“Ah, Peter, you’re back.”

Peter took in David’s Kiss the Cook apron and the neglected flour on his cheek and forehead. David was an inherently messy chef, with each night’s dinner taking nearly as long to clean as it did to cook. The children had rotated cleaning duty, although they would have to change that now, Peter supposed. Despite the normal grumbles and complaints, most of them were more than willing to do it – none of them wanted to be responsible for cooking for almost a dozen pack members instead. Despite the mess, however, David was phenomenal cook, something Peter had never conceded lightly.

Peter frowned at the building pile of dishes in the sink.

“That’s a little much for three people, don’t you think?”

David’s hands slowed, a little, before a bubbling pan caught his attention and he rushed over, picking up speed.

“I’m used to cooking for large groups,” he admitted. “I guess I went a little overboard.”

“More than I little, I think.” Peter said.

From what Peter could tell, David had cooked enough to feed a dozen humans and probably at least seven werewolves for several days. David hummed, shrugging as he pulled fresh _naan_ out of the oven.

“Well, it all freezes, so it should be fine. Butter chicken is always tasty. But I’ll practice scaling back.” David turned to smile at Peter. “I miss the kids, but it might be nice to have a little extra time to work on writing.”

Peter considered David as he turned back to the stovetop. Without the children in their home, no doubt David was – somewhat lonely. Peter would have to dedicate some time out of his schedule to interact with David more.

Peter genuinely liked the man, something that had surprised him when Talia had first introduced Peter to him. For a very long time, the men that were interested in Talia had been more interested in conquering her than actually being an equal partner. David, whom Talia had met at a promotional event for her law practice, had been a breath of fresh air. Broad and dark-bearded, looking at him most people would assume David was a lumberjack before a fairly successful writer, although David himself would be the first to admit that his own aesthetic preferences lended to that impression. Surrounded by repressed assholes in fresh suits, David’s kind, easygoing nature had been appealing, Talia had informed Peter. Appealing enough that, after only three weeks of dating, Talia had let him into the Hale family secret. Their mother would have shat a cow, had she’d been alive to see it.

 “Hey, Peter,” David said, interrupting him from his thoughts. “Will you let our big strong Alpha know that dinner will be ready in a few minutes? She’s in the study.”

“Gross,” Peter said, and headed up the stairs. He might as well kill two pixies with one stone, so to speak.

 

 

“Go away, Peter.”

Peter ignored Talia and entered her study. “It’s been four days, and Parrish hasn’t called yet,” he said. It’d been a while since he last been in here. He examined her bookshelves, five in total, each reaching up to the ceiling and crammed with stacks of books, pushed to fit in whatever angle they would.

 “You can count,” Talia said, not bothering to look away from her computer. “I’m happy all those years of higher education paid off.”

“Mom was so sure I’d never learn.” Peter tapped at the books before pulling one at random and settling into the wide leather armchair across from Talia’s desk. He glanced at the cover. _Criminal Procedure: Constitutional Constraints Upon Investigation and Proof_. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“You?” Talia glanced up at him briefly, glasses perched primly on the rim of her nose, then lifted up a legal pad next to her screen, comparing the two with narrowed eyes. “Always. Now go away, I’m working.”

Peter crossed his legs.

Talia returned her legal pad back to her desk, then began typing rapidly. The phone rang, and Talia picked it up quickly, cradling the phone between cheek and shoulder as she continued to type.

Peter sighed loudly.

Talia grunted into the phone, answering questions with a clipped _yes_ or a firm _no._ After a minute, Talia muttered a quick _goodbye_ and set the phone down with a loud _clack_.

Peter dropped his book onto the wooden side table to his left. _SLAM._

The sound of typing slowed to a stop. Talia closed her eyes, her fingers coming to pinch the space between her eyebrows. “ _Peter_.”

“Yes?” Peter said pleasantly.

“ _What_ do you want?”

“Why, sister,” Peter said, resting a hand over his heart. “Can’t I just want to spend time in your company?”

 “No,” Talia said, finally turning to face him, “you’re agitating. Find something else to do.”

“Was that Parrish?”

“No, just Heather. Apparently Whittemore’s been calling non-stop.” Talia’s eyes darkened. “He is _such_ an ass.”

Peter sat a bit straighter in his chair. “Anything I need to handle?”

Talia waved him off. “No need. I’m not much of a lawyer _or_ an Alpha if I can’t handle _David Whittemore_.”

Peter grinned. He was quite a few years younger than Whittemore, but he remembered the year the man had practically stalked Talia for a month, claiming that she _must_ be cheating on her exams, since there was no way she could be first their class when _he_ was in attendance. Talia had let it be for a while, until he tried to pull her into a classroom and threaten her. Talia told him in no uncertain terms that if he couldn’t keep his hands to himself she would break them and file a restraining order to boot.

Talia hadn’t followed through with the threat, primarily because a day later Peter had done it for her. Too embarrassed to admit he’d been beaten up by a middle schooler, Whittemore had given up. Years later, Whittemore still couldn’t keep up in court and one of his pinkies still wasn’t entirely straight. Talia had never asked Peter why the man flinched whenever Peter accompanied her to the courthouse, but then, Talia wasn’t an idiot.

“So Parrish hasn’t called yet?” Talia asked, after the feeling of nostalgia passed.

Peter shook his head. “I’m sure the autopsy is done by now. It’s not like Beacon Hills has a huge influx of bodies to start with,” Peter paused to consider his statement, then added, “at least not this time of year.”

“Then go talk to the medical examiner yourself.” Narrowing her eyes, Talia pulled off her glasses to focus on Peter clearly. “Are you seriously concerned about this body, or is this because you don’t know what to do with yourself now that the kids aren’t bugging you all the time?”

“I’m enjoying not having the brats around – I was worried the stink of sexual frustration was getting into the walls. _You_ were the one worried about Cora going to Bolivia, remember?”

“Yes, but I’ve seen you when you’re serious about a threat, Peter. Right now you’re just moping.” Problem officially categorized, Talia turned away and slipped her reading glasses back on. “Maybe a hobby would help.”

“A _hobby_?” Peter repeated, appalled.

“You’ve never done well with boredom,” Talia said. “And while you know how much I appreciate everything you do for this pack, it doesn’t have to be your entire life. Don’t you deserve more than that?” Talia smiled at him.

Peter blinked. For a moment, Talia looked so much like their mother – But no, a trick of the light. Peter felt his gut twist against his will.

Sensing the change, Talia frowned. “Peter—”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Peter affected in a haughty tone. “I deserve a break. You people are maddening.”

Talia hesitated, then let it go. She muttered, just loud enough for Peter to hear: “ _We’re_ maddening?”

Peter smiled and rose fluidly from his leather armchair.

“Come on, it’s time for dinner. Your loving house-husband is forlorn, waiting for you.”

 

 

The next day, after his usual dawn perimeter check and a quick breakfast courtesy of a sleepy David, Peter made his way to the hospital. While Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was the only hospital within a twenty-mile radius, a combination of generous donations and foundation funds ensured that it was more than comparable to any hospital in Los Angeles or San Francisco. Peter rarely utilized its services himself, but when Olivia had broken her arm playing with Cora, Peter had been impressed. Now, Peter followed the long winding hallways to an entirely different area, one he hoped his family members would never see. Entering an elevator, Peter pressed the button for the second basement floor and wondered why the morgue was always placed somewhere inherently depressing already.

As the doors opened, Peter quite literally bumped into the person he was looking for. “Melissa,” he said, pleased.

Melissa Delgado had been a forensic nurse and death investigator at the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital morgue for almost three years now. A sad, quiet woman, she had been not only surprisingly competent, but fairly open to the existence of the supernatural. Peter still had fond memories of the first time he’d witnessed her conducting an autopsy on a selkie, finishing the Y-cut calmly as blue-black blood oozed in the wound before turning to Parrish with a calm, measured, “what the fuck?”

If Peter were the type to fall in love, he might have done it then and there.

Melissa looked surprised. “Peter,” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” She stepped back, allowing Peter to exit.

“I got tired of waiting around for Parrish to cut through the red tape. I was hoping you might have something interesting for me.”

“Like the burnt body that was found on the Hale preserve?” Melissa asked, pointedly. Peter shrugged. Melissa stared him down for a moment, pursing her lips slightly. Then she sighed. “Come on, I have a few minutes before my appointment.”

Turning around, Melissa made her way back through the halls, swiping her ID to enter through a pair of large sliding doors, MORGUE written on each in blocky, sterile letters. As she walked, Peter watched the sway of her hips unashamedly. Somehow sensing it as she always did, she turned to look back and gave him an unimpressed look. Peter smiled at her innocently. Melissa rolled her eyes, putting her back to him in order to face the sink.

“We actually completed the autopsy the first day, but Dr. Willing was on vacation last week, so between the formal signatures and delays in dental records we were a little behind. I had the report signed and sent off this morning.” Speaking quickly and efficiently, Melissa washed her hands and slipped on a pair of gloves. “If you’re going to touch, put on some gloves,” Melissa said pointedly. Peter nodded, taking her place at the sink, wincing at the medicinal, antibiotic scent of the soap.

Melissa moved to the nearby wall of metal coolers, counting quietly to herself before pulling at a drawer in the middle. Immediately the chemical scent of the room was overcome with the smell of rotting meat. Peter resisted the urge to pinch his nose shut.

Melissa was already speaking, picking up a clipboard and reading from it. “I don’t have a lot of time before my appointment, but here’s the quick and dirty of it. His name is Garrison Myers. From what Parrish tells me, the man was a bus driver. No surprise, the cause of death was his severe third-degree burns. From what I can tell, some sort of accelerant was used, most likely gasoline.”

“So nothing supernatural or out of the ordinary, then?” Peter asked, feeling a little robbed. All this for nothing?

 Melissa shook her head. “I’m not entirely sure. The body took on normal pugilistic posture.  There’s also no blunt force damage to the skull, or sharp force trauma marks on the bone, or any fractures in the unburned bones. In fact, there’s no sign of any trauma whatsoever. There aren’t even signs of drugs or poison in his soft tissues.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that in all likelihood, this man probably wasn’t dead or unconscious when he was set on fire. He may not have even been restrained.” Melissa looked up at Peter, her eyes dark and serious. “How do you get someone to stay still while you burn them alive?”

“Magic,” Peter said.

 

 

“I appreciate you letting me observe,” Peter told Melissa as they walked back to the elevator. Peter breathed in the chemical scent with a mild sort of relief. “I realize you are a very busy woman.”

“As if you wouldn’t have broken in anyway. I do know you.” Melissa’s mouth twitched at the sides, almost into a smile.

“You do indeed,” Peter said, smiling charmingly, “Is that why you’ve never taken me up on that second date?”

Melissa rose an eyebrow at him. “We sleep together once, and suddenly you’re stalking me? Hold the breaks there, buddy.”

 “What can I say? Perfection, once tasted, can never be forgotten.”

“Oh, shut up, you snake charmer.” Melissa said, the sharp bite of her words softened by the affection in her tone.

Flirting with Melissa was a tradition that Peter had begun even before her discovery of the supernatural. He’d honestly been surprised when she’d agreed to go on a date with him, and even more so when she’d invited him back to her house. It had been a particularly…enjoyable evening, if he did say so himself. Nonetheless, hours later, he’d woken up to her crying in the kitchen. She’d apologized profusely, but told him that she couldn’t see him again, that it wasn’t him, he was wonderful, but that she just couldn’t do _this_ right now, and she was sincerely sorry that she’d led him to believe otherwise.

When he’d seen her again, a few short weeks before the selkie incident, Peter had immediately told her that while he completely understood her need for space, he was going to need her banking information. Bewildered, Melissa asked him why the hell he’d need that, and Peter told her, expression innocent, that it was because she had his interest.

It was the first and only time he’d heard her laugh.

In truth, Peter wouldn’t mind taking Melissa out again, despite the horrendous nature of their first date. He sincerely enjoyed the woman’s company – sad and quiet though she was, he found himself enjoying the brief sparks of fire she let loose when he challenged her, and the bright sparkle of intelligence in her eyes. However, Melissa seemed far more comfortable with the exchange of barbs and flattery their acquaintanceship had evolved into, and Peter respected Melissa enough to let her decide the extent of their interactions.

Chatting amiably, Peter walked with Melissa until they arrived at Room 129 in the long-term care ward. She stopped in front of the door and laid her hand on Peter’s forearm. “I know we don’t have all the details yet, but keep me in the loop, okay?” She paused, and Peter was surprised to see the corner of her mouth tremble, just a bit. “We don’t need anyone else burning people alive.”

“Of course,” Peter said automatically, filing her response in his head. Melissa squeezed his arm gratefully and released it.

“I’ll see you around,” she said.

Peter waited until she entered the room, the edge of a smile pulling at her mouth. “Stiles, how are you doing today?”

As she closed the door, Peter began to walk away, plans already building in his head. Now that he had a name, it was time to do a little more digging.


End file.
